Under the Stage
by MadClarinetist
Summary: Not really on marching band, but I didn't know where else to put it. A stream of thought thingy that could be performed as a monologue on pit orchestra at summer camp.


Body Under The Stage 

You take one step, then another. Jump down from the last couple of steps, watch the netting covering everyone's heads. Rumors fly about that netting, saying that it's there to protect us from them, saying that it's there to stop them from falling in. So you take a few steps, and you hold up your black-and-silver clarinet, or maybe if you're doing something different that day week session, you hold your big brassy saxaphone off to the side, hoping that it won't break again like last time, that you'll finish out this show unscathed, maybe a little cold or sad, but unbroken. And you sit down, you put your sweater, or sweaters if it's a cold rainy day like usual, on the back of your chair. And your book, the music behind the music, is already on the stand, put there by the oboist, a twelve year old girl who plays that double reed better than anyone that you know. And you sit down, say hi to trombonist Eric, who's really teacher Eric, and other teacher Erik-19 years old, struggling with saxaphone, big brother Erik. Lisa, trumpet player Lisa, who you want to be when you grow up, but maybe not, because she does play the trumpet. And the others, Gavin who plays the guitar and shows your brother how to play it himself. Peter, or maybe Ivan, the loud bang-bang drummer. Fiona, voice teacher slash percussionist. Bruce, piano player who's really a flutist, learnt how to play Japanese flute in Arizona, Bruce piano player who taught your sister how to paddle a kayak, Bruce piano player who taught you how to play your clarinet like it's easy, long tones and dischords every first period in shakahachi ensamble. And the other students-sometimes Julia, almost little sister, oboe like a duck. Sometimes Andy, other big brother clarinetist slash flutist Andy, Ecuadorian Andy who you'll miss so much it hurts in the next three weeks. Sometimes Jesse, saxaphone player with inky black hair and "killer jazz skills", to quote Erik. Sometimes Steve, intense bass player allergic to your peanut butter m and m's you snuck in last night, better put those away. So you set your water bottle down, maybe take a sip so your mouth won't be dry as a desert, so you'll get those low notes and hit those high notes. And conductor musical director Jerome, or maybe Danny, nice guys, conductors who believe in you. You've done a show with each of them, Danny your first, West Side Story difficulties last year, Music Man with Jerome, him singing Shipoopi just for kicks, stand up 'cause "here's the band!" And now you're doing maybe A Chorus Line, maybe Once Upon A Mattress, maybe Leader of the Pack, and he raises his baton, and you launch into the overture. First song, second song, all the way to finale and bows, and you drink your water and much on m and m's, no peanut butter this time for Steve. And you play, and maybe you make a couple mistakes, cursing those on stage for dancing so hard the stage vibrates over your head and you laugh nervously, cursing them for singing in this key or that key so you're playing six, seven sharps, raise everything up a half step and then the bows , the cast thanks the pit orchestra and you hear your name being yelled and then the music stops and you look up and smile, and see the twenty thirty could be forty smiling faces leaning into the pit and you yell, motion for them to wait for you, and you take your music or maybe leave it there for tomorrow's show, and climb up out of the pit, out of what you jokingly call your lair, out of what you could call home, thinking of the next performance, dreading it because it could be the last time you'll ever get to sit down there with people that you love, people that love you, and play your heart out knowing that upstaging the people on stage, when it's possible, is okay, because you're sitting there, happy that you're going to walk out, climb out, scramble out of the pit, back into the real world, and into a world of people that love you, that you love. Sitting under the stage puts your life into perspective, as you listen to them sing above you, listen to the microphones crackle backstage as they curse and change into next costume, next number. You think about why you're there, think about if you're destined to sit under the stage while little brother sits up there alone singing something-or-other, as you wait for your cue. You wish that real life was like sitting under the stage, getting cued in when you need it, getting your solo or two or five, playing what's written with a couple cuts and a couple write-ins, getting your part covered for you if you need it, but playing most of it yourself, and that's what you wish life was. Covering your part, but knowing that if it's too fast, or too high, or too low, that you've got people volunteering to help. The woven bracelet on your wrist, or since you had to take it off for your show (the hokey fairy-tale musical where you have to dance, your worst fear except for maybe another thing you have to do, wear a unitard in front of 300 people who don't care anyway, who tell you that you look great anyway), the white patch on your tanned arm where the bracelet was, is a reminder of the fact that life is kind of like what you wish it was, that you do have people there to cover your part if needed. So you get out of the pit where you wish you could stay, even though it's cold and cramped and dark, and you go on with your life. But you still wish, as you walk into your house after six weeks of seperation, that you were under the stage. 


End file.
